


Judge, Jury and Executioner

by Kovitlac



Series: Pre-Avengers (2012) [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton-centric, Clint is a ceaseless flirt, Deaf Clint Barton, Murder Mystery, Natasha Feels, Nick Fury Swears, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Pre-Avengers (2012), deaf!Clint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4360193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kovitlac/pseuds/Kovitlac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint sat completely still. Of course, he supposed, being cuffed to the table made any deviation from sitting still somewhat less than possible. But doing so also helped him to keep his breathing slow, and to relax. Or at least relax as much as he could, given that he was in a S.H.I.E.L.D. interrogation chamber, and knew what would likely be coming next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how long this'll be, but I guess we'll find out together. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! 
> 
> TW: Implications of torture/child abuse.

**S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, New York**

**June, 2010**

_Bzzzzzzzzt! Bzzzzzzzzztt!_

The mobile phone buzzed harshly against the locker room bench, loud enough to make even the normally unflappable Agent Romanov jump. She finished toweling off her hair and shook it out, before taking a moment to stare at her reflection in the shower room mirror.

She’d had yet another satisfying afternoon breaking in the new batch of S.H.I.E.L.D. trainees. She’d started the session with a brief introduction of herself, and of her specialty. She ignored the small handful of younger guys who stood in the back, sniggering amongst themselves. She’d teach the uppity, arrogant ones a lesson in respect that they wouldn’t soon forget. And sure enough, barely forty minutes later, all three of the men had gotten their asses thoroughly handed back to them, and with the bruises to show for it. Natasha savored the shocked look on each of their faces, knowing they wouldn’t be disrespecting a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent again any time soon.

A third loud buzz from her phone brought her attention back to the moment. She turned away from the mirror, stepping back toward the long, wooden bench behind her. The sound that reached her ears was loud, disconcerting and, she thought, filled with a particular note of urgency.

_Of course that was silly_ , Natasha chastened herself, reaching for the mobile. The damn thing buzzes the same every time, depending, of course, on the surface it’s resting on. Still, she couldn’t shake the sense that this time it wouldn’t just be Coulson reminding her to go easier on the poor recruits tomorrow, or Clint asking her if she was cool with olives on half the pizza they’d planned on ordering later that night. Call it woman’s intuition, or just a simple gut feeling.

She picked up the phone and hit answer, pressing the top of the screen to her ear. The Director’s deadpan voice answered the question that was on her lips, she never got the chance to ask.

“Interrogation Suite. Twenty minutes. TeNO.”

The call went dead. Natasha eyed the screen a moment before setting the device back down on the bench. She’d have to change quickly. Fury wanted her to meet him in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s interrogation suite ASAP, and he didn’t want her to tell anyone she was going. That would be enough to set the red-head slightly on edge, as it was. Not that she had any problem with interrogations, but she usually had far more than twenty minutes of warning. She needed to know the interrogee, his known associates, his history, what kind of information S.H.I.E.L.D. was looking for, etc. While she liked to pretend that she knew everything about anyone at any given time, fact was, that was impossible. She brushed up on her knowledge of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most wanted criminals the same way an eager chemistry student would brush up on their knowledge of the Periodic Table. And as far as she knew, there had been no kidnapping/exfiltration ops scheduled for several weeks.

So what did Fury really want with her?...

Yet one more rumble brought her attention back to the phone sitting on the bench. A text, this time. This one from Coulson. So Fury had already brought him on on…whatever it was Fury needed her for. She glanced at the brief, one-lined message, and her forehead creased with worry, as a pit opened up in her stomach. Her mouth set into a hard form, and she quickened her pace.

_Barton has been compromised._

**

  
“What is going on?” Natasha demanded, striding quickly across the black tile floor toward the Director. Fury stood at the far side of the chamber, hands crossed behind his back, staring purposefully through the one-way glass window inches away. His eyes didn’t so much as flicker toward Natasha, but he replied to her all the time.

“I was hoping perhaps you’d be able to answer that, for me.” He spoke in a deep monotone, voice devoid of any and all humor. Which was perhaps normal for Fury, although even under fairly serious circumstances, the Director rarely had such a look of anger, about him. This was different. An agent of his had done the unfathomable, and he needed to know why.

“He was found fleeing the scene minutes after it happened. And he took down half the strike team trying to bring him in.”

Natasha came to stand beside Fury, her gaze flickering into the small room beyond the glass. She already knew who’s familiar face she’d see. But actually seeing him in there, sitting in a chair and handcuffed to the table in front of him, made her stomach clench.

Clint’s cloudy blue-gray eyes stared straight ahead through the glass, and even though Natasha knew he couldn’t see anything but a pit of blackness, she got the uneasy sensation that his eyes were still meeting hers. They never wavered, despite a technician hovering around him, setting up a small camera and laptop on a cart nearby. Natasha’ breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to stay professional. Even if it was her trusted friend and partner that was chained up in the next room.

“Who was the target?” The forced stoicism in her voice was enough to surprise even herself. Fury gestured to a binder resting on the sill against the window. Natasha opened it, and began to paw through while the Director summarized.

“Dr. Kenneth Brady. One of our top scientists, working as part of the S.H.I.E.L.D. research and data-mining division in Quantico.” He cleared his throat, finally breaking eye contact with his long-time agent to look at Natasha.

“He was recruited three and a half years ago, and set up to work on a variety of S.H.I.E.L.D. assignments. Most of his projects were classified, of course, but what I can tell you is that he was a highly gifted biologist and anatomist. His knowledge of the human body and how it interacts with different chemical and physical enhancements led to a great deal of breakthroughs in protective gear and equipment.” He let out his breath. “Until this morning.”

“Sir…” Natasha didn’t mean for her voice to come out as tentative as it sounded, to her. “Clint had to have a reason for what he did. He’s the last man…the last agent…I would expect to lose control, like this.”

“Yeah...” Fury licked his lips, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. “Well, his record says otherwise. You know as well as I do, Natasha, that Barton has a history of not following orders. Of taking unnecessary risks and breaking virtually every rule in the book.”

“So he’s a little unconventional – ”

“You call _this_ ‘unconventional’?” He handed Natasha a manila envelope, which she opened with no small amount of trepidation. Her eyes widened at a series of photos she found inside. Pictures of a man, no less than sixty years old, sporting bruises and shallow lacerations over every visible inch of his face, neck and arms. Natasha didn’t wince at the violence – that, in and of itself, she was plenty used to inflicting, never mind seeing. But Fury was telling her that _Clint_ had done this… That he’d beaten an old man, a S.H.I.E.L.D. asset no less, to death without one hint of mercy… She swallowed hard, but her mouth remained dry all the same. In the small, tightly enclosed observation chamber, she felt a strange chill.

“Natasha… I know Clint is your partner. Hell, he’s been a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent for close to fifteen years. In our line of work, that’s practically unheard of. I would trust him with nothing short of my life.” He watched Widow set the photographs and envelope down wordlessly on the table.

“I figured if anyone could tell me what kind of vendetta Clint had against this guy, it would be you.”

“As far as I know, Clint never knew him. Neither did I.” She spoke quietly, the familiar rasp of her voice more pronounced than usual. Fury nodded slowly, disappointed, but expecting as much. He straightened, returning his gaze to the window.

“I was hoping you would talk to him.” Natasha’s head shot up, and even though Fury kept his sole visible eye trained on Clint, he could sense Natasha seething beside him.

“You mean you want me to _interrogate_ him.”

“Don’t pretend that you don’t know how this works.” The Director set his jaw, staying firm. “Barton went rogue on a S.H.I.E.L.D. employee this morning. And he didn’t bother being too subtle with it, either.” He motioned to the photos sprawled all over the desk’s cool, metal surface.

“You’re looking at what’ll be airing on tomorrow’s 7 o’clock news. The press have no idea Barton’s an agent, but they have his name. And they know he’s in custody.” He carefully shifted the photos around, slowly placing them back into the envelope.

“I’m not asking you to hurt him, Natasha… I’m only asking you to get him to talk.”

“And if that doesn’t work? If he doesn’t cooperate with me?...”

Fury shifted his gaze once more to the window, and didn’t answer. A cold, uncomfortable silence filled the room, before Natasha left without another word.

**

Clint sat completely still. _Of course_ , he supposed, _being cuffed to the table made any deviation from sitting still somewhat less than possible_. But doing so also helped him to keep his breathing slow, and to relax. Or at least relax as much as he could, given that he was in a S.H.I.E.L.D. interrogation chamber, and knew what would likely be coming next.

First they’d make him uncomfortable by leaving him alone for long periods of time, slowly cranking up the heat to put him more and more on edge. Then they’ll start probing him with questions, while pulling out the more…creative…information extraction methods. If that particular song and dance didn’t work, they’d pump him full of sodium amytal, a designated “truth serum” drug which, when used correctly, doesn’t host a huge number of negative side-effects.

Of course, that was assuming that the individual being interrogated hadn’t received years of training on how to mentally combat a variety of truth drugs. Nah, for him, they’d probably skip straight to the bad stuff – the psychotropic drugs, the addictive chemicals, and those used solely to cause intense pain. All of which Clint could still combat, to some degree… But there was always the possibility he would eventually break, which was, in all actuality, the least of his concerns. If the torture went on long enough, he’d not only tell them exactly why he did what he did, but there was no guarantee he’d even be the same person that he had been hours before. Clint had seen the effects of intense chemical torture before, and it wasn’t exactly something he cared to experience, first-hand.

Clint realized his heart rate had spiked, and he took deep breaths to settle it back down. Already, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s methods were working, and no one besides the technician had even entered the room yet. Clint was being sloppy, letting their head games get to him so quickly. He vowed to concentrate. To focus.

His eyes flickered over when the door clicked, and drew open. His resolve to remain calm nearly shattered when he spotted his long-time friend and partner. He fought down the urge to say her name – to demand to know why they had forced her to do this, of all people – and instead, swallowed all the questions rising in his throat. He fixed her with a surprised stare, but offered nothing else. For her part, Agent Romanov carried nothing on her. No weapons or instruments of torture, or even papers or a cell. She pulled up a chair and sat down opposite of Barton, leaving only the small desk between them. She watched him for a moment, her own eyes betraying not anger, but concern. She was worried for him.

_Focus…_

Clint felt a guilty pang in his chest for causing her such grief.

“Clint…” Natasha licked her lips and finally spoke. After being away for so long, her familiar voice was as welcoming to Clint as it was painful. Clint found himself breaking his vow to remain silent almost as soon as he’d made it.

“I didn’t think they’d send you in here. Fury has some fucking nerve…”

“What did you expect?” She sat back in her seat, crossing her legs. “A week ago, you called and said you’d be back from Tripoli sooner than expected. Three days later, you texted me, saying you’d be back today and we’d grab pizza.” Her eyes lingered on his, intense enough to make him uncomfortable.

“And this morning, you murdered a man in cold blood. A S.H.I.E.L.D. asset, no less. I’ve seen the photos, Clint…” For a moment she lowered her eyes, and Clint knew she was taking in his mangled and blood-spattered knuckles. The strike team had taken him immediately from the research building in Quantico where he’d been found back to New York, and hadn’t bothered to escort him to medical first. Clint figured they weren’t going to take the risk of taking him anywhere _but_ Interrogation, and besides, he’d suffered far worse time and time again. He shifted his hands awkwardly, trying to hide the worst of the bruises. Natasha gave a muffled sound that sounded a bit like a sigh.

“Look: If we’re going to continue chatting, I’m going to let you get a little more comfortable.” She leaned over the table, producing a small silver key that had been hidden up her wrist. Clint heard urgent tapping on the glass, but Natasha ignored it. Fury’s voice flooded the room via the intercom.

“Agent Romanov, that course of action is NOT advised.”

“Relax, Director.” She murmured, slipping the key into the lock and twisting it. The cuffs snapped off and fell uselessly against the table.

“Clint won’t make it difficult for me. Will ya, _Hawkeye_?” Clint rubbed first one wrist, than the other. A slow smile spread across his face.

“For you, ‘Tash? Of course not.”

“Good.” She sat back down, leaning forward, elbows resting on the edge of the table. She regarded her trusted friend and partner with calm concern.

“Did you lose control?”

“Does it look like I did?”

“It’s not as tidy as you usually leave it…”

“Well, then.” He gave a dismissive shrug, looking away. Natasha continued to stare him down, and Clint found himself shifting uncomfortably under her unflinching gaze.

“None of this is going to work.” He said, finally. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha momentarily drop her ‘stern’ act, and actually look surprised.

“Would you rather I let Fury bring Daviau in here?”

Clint closed his eyes. Jen Daviau was the official lead interrogator here at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s New York headquarters. A small French-woman, she had something of a chip on her shoulder and an icy glare to match. She was smart, talented, and frighteningly good at her job. She was the last person – other than Natasha, herself – that Clint wanted there in that room, with him. He had a hunch that Natasha felt similarly.

“Do what you have to.” He managed at last, raising his eyes and looking past his trusted friend to the window beyond. He knew Fury would be watching. Natasha scowled, more than a little fed up with her overly stubborn partner.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything.” She said sharply, standing up. “I’m not the one that killed a man against S.H.I.E.L.D. orders. Or murdered half a strike team of agents. Or – ”

“Huh?” Clint focused back on her, now genuinely confused. _She thought I killed them…_ He dropped the smart-ass demeanor, honestly taken back. “Christ, Nat, I didn’t kill any agents.” The very idea that she believed he could have done something so vile spoke volumes. Of course, Clint realized, it wasn’t as though he was giving her much of a choice in the matter. He’d already betrayed her trust by doing what he did. Not to mention the trust of Fury and the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D… But that didn’t mean nearly as much to him as the loss of Natasha’s confidence. He’d live with his decision for the rest of his life. However much longer that turned out to be.

“I knocked them out, and one guy will probably need surgery on his nose, but…”

“I hadn’t heard that.” Natasha shot a brief glance back at the mirror, before leaning back in her seat, elbow over the back of the chair.

“So, what did this Brady guy do? It must have been pretty personal.”

“He must have cut in front of me in line at the Gas-In-Go. You know I hate that.”

“Clint, I am trying to help you. _S.H.I.E.L.D._ is trying to help you. You’re in deep, and I don’t think cute quips are going to get you out of it, this time.”

Clint arched a brow in her direction, but said nothing. Natasha sighed and stood up, resting her palms against the table.

“I’ll make sure Daviau takes it easy on you.” She said simply. A knock on the glass reminded her to return the cuffs to Clint’s wrists. She did so (Clint watched her closely, but didn’t say a word or give the slightest hint of protest) before leaving him alone in the interrogation chamber. Clint silently watched her leave before returning his eyes to the mirror.

She had given him something to think about.

**

Natasha returned to find the Director was no longer alone. Phil Coulson had joined him sometime during the agent’s ‘talk’ with Barton, as had Daviau. Both looked about as pleased about the situation as Fury did. Coulson took a deep breath and gestured to the window, but it was Fury who spoke up, first.

“Just what the hell was that??”

“I could have told you before, Fury.” Natasha leaned back against the wall near the door, crossing her arms over her chest. She sounded almost bored. “Just because he _trusts_ me doesn’t mean he’s going to _talk_ to me. Continuing this interrogation is a waste of time and resources.”

“Then enlighten me, Agent Romanov. Daviau, get in there. Set up whatever you might need, but don’t start yet.” There were few times when Fury sounded genuinely furious with one of his agents. Frustrated or irritated, perhaps (usually with Barton, interestingly enough). Pissed off, sure. But the way the Director looked now, Natasha wasn’t all too certain that Jen Daviau was the worst Clint had to worry about, or not.

She sucked in a breath, watching the gifted interrogator make her way into the room.

“Clint won’t respond to me. Or to Daviau.” She added, eyes flickering in the direction of the mirror. The Frenchwoman had been silently checking over an open briefcase full of what she commonly liked to refer to as ‘methods of extracting information.’ There were times when Natasha appreciated Daviau for her skills, and there were times when she did not. Currently, she was in the latter train of thought. She didn’t want Daviau anywhere near her partner.

For his part, Clint only watched the interrogator silently with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. He appeared almost thoughtful.

“So then what would you recommend?” Fury pressed. “Let me remind you, I have no qualms with letting Agent Daviau do her thing. Barton’s tough, I’ll give him that, but he’s not unbreakable.”

“Because if you do that. If you let her torture him to get what you need, I guarantee you, you will lose one of your best agents.” Natasha fired back, green eyes blazing. “And you will never get him back.”

“She might have a point.” Coulson piped up. “I don’t like this anymore than you, Director. But this is Clint, we’re talking about.”

The Director was silent for several moments. “You think it isn’t already too late for that, Coulson? Natasha?” He asked, quietly. “I know you’re close-knit group, but – ”

They were interrupted by a sharp gasp from Coulson. Both Natasha and Fury instantly turned their attention to the mirror. All three stared in shock.

Clint Barton, sans cuffs, held a struggling Davaiu by her arms, pinning them behind her back. A second arm entwined around her throat, the hand of which grasped a syringe filled with an eerie blue substance. He turned his narrowed eyes to the mirror, tightening his grasp on the squirming agent. She gave a pained gasp, before ceasing her struggles. Clint smiled coolly.

“Uh, waiter? Yeah, I’d like a bacon double cheeseburger, hold the onions. Oh,” his eyes darkened. Natasha felt a chill shoot down her spine.

“…and the keys to the Quinjet. I have somewhere I need to be.”          

**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You lost Agent Barton??” 
> 
> Natasha worked hard to keep her face as neutral as possible. It didn’t help that she was as frustrated with herself (and with Barton) as the Director was. Her partner seemed to be pulling out all the stops with his recent stunts, and Natasha wasn’t all too sure that she’d be able to successfully bring him in, when it came down to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extended wait - I've been out of town! As always, feedback is more than welcome. If someone wants to correct my Russian, please get in contact with me.

**S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, New York**

**June, 2010**

Both Coulson and Director Fury found themselves lunging for the intercom at the exact same time. Managing to narrowly avoid colliding heads with Coulson, Fury reached it first, punching the push-to-talk key so hard he nearly broke it.

“What the fucking _hell_ are you doing, Barton?? You are ordered to stand down, _immediately_!”

Natasha stood back from the one-way glass, behind the two men. She observed the quickly worsening situation with a calm and practiced eye. Inside the interrogation chamber, Agent Barton tightened his grip on the furious Frenchwoman, keeping both her arms wedged tightly against his chest. For her part, there was no panic in her eyes – only anger. Natasha had no doubts Davaiu would tear Clint’s throat out, if given the chance. She was also willing to bet that Clint was more than well-aware of that.

Barton pressed the long, narrow edge of the hypodermic needle against the captured agent’s throat. His eyes darkened as he stared into the black side of the mirror.

“Don’t test me, Nicky…” He warned. “The Quinjet, for Jen. Even trade.”

“You know as well as I do that S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t bargain.” The Director spat into the intercom. “Just let her go, and we can have a nice, friendly chat.”

“Yeah, right.” Clint snorted rudely. “I swear to God, Fury, you get me out of here, or I drop her. Just ask Natasha if I’m serious.”

Fury glanced back behind him. Agent Romanov tilted her head to the side, still staring intently at the glass.

“Let him go, boss.”

“Romanov!”

“Director, he is serious.” She tore her eyes from the mirror and looked to the Director. “If you let him go, I can follow him. Find out what he’s doing this for.” Her eyes flashed. “But I _need_ you to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Fury moved closer to her, effectively blocking her view of the two-way mirror. “Natasha, how did Barton even get his cuffs off, in the first place?”

She blinked slowly, before carefully meeting his eye. Her gaze remained rock-steady, and Nick found himself cursing her resolve. God _damn_ spies…

“Sir.” Coulson cut in, his own voice betraying his nerves. He spread his hands apologetically, and Fury knew what he was going to say even before the words left his mouth.

“Perhaps we should…take Barton up on his offer.” He swallowed as Fury rounded on him, but his eyes remained remarkably steady.

“And just let him – a rogue agent – off the hook?”

“Well…no.” He returned his attention to the glass. “Even if we manage to free Daviau and recapture Barton, do you really think we can hold him indefinitely? This is Clint, we’re talking about… One of our best.” He gestured to the agent, as if he needed any more proof than the situation they were already in.

“If you think there’s even the slightest chance he might break himself out, we should take our chance now. Because we won’t get another.”

Director Fury glared stonily at the window, unmoving. Natasha watched his back, knowing that now was her chance to push the idea.

“Let me track him. Find out what he’s up to.” She said softly. “Out there, where he feels safe, he might listen to me.”

Fury rubbed the back of his head, taking in a deep breath. He looked once more to the glass, before carefully reaching out and pressing the talk button. He set his jaw before speaking.

“…alright you win, Barton. The Quinjet is all yours.”

* * *

 

Clint gripped the familiar controls and smiled for the first time since this entire disaster began. Not that he was actually happy about anything he’d done within the last forty-eight hours. It was doubtful his life would ever return back to normal – well, what actually qualified as ‘normal’ for an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., anyway. He felt the engines roar to life underneath him. Keeping an eye on the access hatch nearby, he watched as the Quinjet slowly raised itself a foot off the rooftop. Then five, then twenty. He pitched the throttle forward and steered the bird off toward the east.

There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Fury had planted a tracker on his ship. He’d probably send Natasha after him, if he hadn’t already. He’d have to ditch the Quinjet as soon as he got the chance. Or even better, maybe he could use it to throw them off-track.

He hated this. He hated every – _fucking_ – second of this. He hated losing Fury’s respect, and betraying Natasha’s trust. But as the old saying went, desperate times called for equally desperate measures. Someone out there had long since earned a bullet to the brain. Keeping Fury and Nat in the dark was the only way to 100% protect them from later retaliation. The people Clint was messing with…they didn’t mess around, in return. No, once someone messed with them, they made damn sure that it didn’t happen a second time. And they accomplished that by taking out whoever they felt needed to be taken out. And to think that a family member could be involved… It made Clint feel sick to his stomach, even if he wasn’t especially surprised. Family member against family member wasn’t exactly unheard of in his line of work, although it was rare. And this particular person would kill Barton without a second thought, if it served his own purpose at the time.

Clint was well-aware this could be one of his final missions. In that case, maybe it was appropriate that it was a mission he’d picked out for himself. He hoped he’d get it right.

* * *

 

“I am in pursuit. But Director… Clint is going to expect something like this.” Natasha cautioned, sitting at the control panel of her own modified Quinjet. It was smaller than the typical jet in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s fleet, but for good reason; it was designed specifically for stealth, rather than combat.

The hull was sleeker and more fitted, and supplied with a cloaking mechanism similar to that of the Hellicarrier itself, if not quite on the same level. Still, it was an aircraft that did its job remarkably well.

“Without a doubt.” Fury’s voice came over the comm system, piped conveniently into Natasha’s headset. To anyone who didn’t know him, he likely sounded extraordinarily calm, considering the situation. To Natasha, however, his voice held a steely edge to it. The Director was angry, and for good reason. But apart from that, he was also concerned. None of this was like Clint… He had a tendency to bend the rules a bit (Natasha never failed to be impressed with his ability to constantly piss off the higher-ups, yet still retain his job), but going full-rogue was another matter, entirely. Clint never took out a target unless the mission called for it.

So just what on Earth…?

Natasha shook her head, intent on focusing on the job at hand. She needed to bring Clint in – no easy task, in and of itself – alive, and unharmed. Or at least, as unharmed as possible. If she failed, it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that the Director would resort to more...extreme…methods of dealing with the agent. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t have an operative out in the field, breaking rules, killing innocents and drawing attention. Natasha understood that, as much as it sickened her to think about.

“What we need to do is outthink him. You know him best – I trust you to come up with a plan for catching him.”

“ _Right_. Outthink the tactical strategist.” Natasha mumbled, tilting the joystick and banking carefully to the left. _The guy who notices every single little detail and could use a plastic spoon as a weapon, if need-be._ She kept a close eye on her radar. Barton’s Quinjet was about two miles ahead. It was a cloudy day, and Natasha didn’t have eyes on him directly, but she trusted the transponder she placed. And even with some measure of cloaking, it was better if she used cloud cover, as well. Barton would likely catch onto her sooner rather than later, and she wanted to have her bases covered.

Tailing the rogue agent was not going to be easy.

“In the meantime,” the Director continued, “we can discuss your own actions, back in the interrogation suite.”

“Didn’t we already have this conversation?” Natasha kept one eye on her windshield, and the other on her radar. The transponder signal was still strong.

“Yeah, well, I was hoping for the truth, this time.” Fury replied darkly, the steely edge returning to his voice. “Barton’s a good agent, but he _isn’t_ Houdini. Not by a long shot. You uncuffed him.”

“Yes I did, boss. And then I recuffed him. You saw me.”

“That’s not all you did though, was it.” It may have been phrased as a question, but Natasha knew it was anything but. She held her breath a moment before calmly exhaling, and choosing her words very carefully. Fury already knew what she did. Giving her a chance to come clean herself was nothing more than a professional courtesy.

“…I slipped Barton the key. When I cuffed him.”

“I figured as much.” He growled. “Care to explain why? Or do I have to court-martial _two_ of my best agents, today?”

Natasha knew he wouldn’t. Clint had been threatened with court-martial more times than she could remember, but it had never come to that. Of course, he’d never aided and abetted a known traitor before, either. Not that Clint was actually a traitor… Natasha couldn’t bring herself to believe it, even with all the evidence saying otherwise.

“Barton didn’t kill the strike team because he isn’t a traitor.” She said at last. “Director, you know Clint could have taken down every single one of those agents without a mark to show for it. He could have killed them all blindfolded, if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t… because taking innocent lives is not something that Clint Barton does.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be sure to let Brady’s family know.” Fury replied with a dry curtness. “Or maybe I’ll have you tell them yourself, since you seem so sure of your partner’s motives.”

“I _don’t_ know his motives!” Natasha clarified, sounding more hostile than intended. She bit her tongue and took a mental step back. Fury wasn’t going to believe her if she showed how upset the entire fucked-up situation had made her. She didn’t like not being able to completely trust her partner. Even if she turned out to be 100% right about Clint, he’d still earned himself more than just a black eye and a headache from the likes of her.

“You know I’m right. Even if Clin- if Barton was opposed to taking down the entire strike force, he could have easily evaded being taken in. But he _let_ himself get caught.” She steadied the aircraft, still reading a stable ping on Barton’s location up ahead.

“With all due respect, Sir… _you_ tell me why he’d do that.”

Fury was silent. Natasha pulled back on the joystick, lifting the craft another dozen or so meters. She frowned as the target vessel began heading out over the Atlantic Ocean. This flight path made no sense… The Quinjet couldn’t possibly be carrying enough fuel to make it over the sea. Just where was Clint going, anyway?

“Okay, so assume you’re right.” The Director replied, after several moments of thoughtful silence. “I’ll grant that Barton isn’t a mindless killer. He is _slightly_ more than that.” There was an ounce of grudging respect for the long-time agent, in Fury’s voice.

“But he still murdered a man who was not a target. And he threatened Davaiu with…well, I’d really rather not know.”

“Vecuronium.” Natasha supplied, automatically. “A modified version that Davaiu prefers to use. It’s a neuromuscular inhibitor. Meant to paralyze for short periods of time.”

“I know what Vecuronium is.” Fury growled defensively. “I authorized its use. But if that’s what Barton planned on injecting her with, he’d have to know it wouldn’t have killed her.”

“I believe he did know.” Natasha said quietly. “Barton never wanted to kill her. He wanted a way out.”

“And you gave it to him.”

“You weren’t going to get anywhere by interrogating him. Trust me.” She set her jaw, eyes set ahead as the modified jet sped up. Barton’s stolen Quinjet should be just ahead.

“This way I can track him, figure out where he’s going and what his plan is, and bring him back in.” _Alive_.

“I hope you’re right about this, Romanov.” Fury replied stiffly. “For everyone’s sake.” The transmission ended. Natasha tensed up and leaned forward. Something was off; she was sure of it. Barton’s flight path, previously unwavering, was now banking hard to the right, making a wide semi-circle and beginning to head back toward base. Unless her readings were incorrect, which was unlikely, Barton seemed to be reconsidering his course of action and returning to S.H.I.E.L.D. Natasha started to follow, than thought better of it.

_Since when does Barton_ ever _stop to reconsider his actions?..._ She initiated a scan, searching for life signs within the craft. The results popped up, and the Widow deflated, her shoulders slumping.

Nothing. There were precisely zero biological entities onboard the Quinjet. Meaning that Clint must have exited the jet under the cover of low-hanging clouds, either via parachute or a long fall followed by a sudden stop. She assumed the later – Clint was unfathomably fond of leaping from tall buildings with nothing but a grappling arrow to keep him from becoming a vaguely human-shaped splatter on pavement. Natasha supposed leaping from a jet was the next logical step, if there was actually anything logical about any of Clint’s actions, up to this point.

She let out a heavy sigh, distractedly pushing the bangs from her face.

_God damn you, Barton_ , she thought to herself, bringing her own jet to a hovering stop. _What the hell are you up to?..._

* * *

 

“You _lost_ Agent Barton??”

Natasha worked hard to keep her face as neutral as possible. It didn’t help that she was as frustrated with herself (and with Barton) as the Director was. Her partner seemed to be pulling out all the stops with his recent stunts, and Natasha wasn’t all too sure that she’d be able to successfully bring him in, when it came down to it.

Clint was shaking her own confidence in her skills as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and frankly, it was pissing her off. It was something else he’d have to pay for, if she succeeded.

“He used the cloud cover to escape his Quinjet via the lower access hatch. At least, that’s what I assume.”

“And you’re positive he’s not on that bird.”

“Radar was reading zero life signs.” Natasha lowered herself onto her haunches, sifting through a small pile of flight manuals and control handbooks. Likely nothing that Clint would have touched, during his recent joyride. She dusted off her hands and rested her elbows on her knees. “I’m searching the area for clues, but I highly doubt he left anything for me to find. He’s smarter than that.”

“Yeah, well…” She recognized the frustration in Fury’s voice – it mirrored that which she struggled to keep out of her own. If she doubted her own ability to bring Clint back, Fury would have her replaced in a heartbeat. That was something she could not risk. No matter how much of a pain Clint was being.

Fury continued.

“You’ve always been a match for him, Romanov. I am trusting you with this. Or…” Fury didn’t have to continue. Natasha knew the obvious implication.

“I will find him.” She promised, before abruptly cutting the transmission. Her eyes returned to the control panel of the newly boarded Quinjet. She slid into the co-pilot’s chair, leaning back comfortably against the familiar seat.

While she was technically capable of flying with a co-pilot alongside her, she didn’t have Clint’s years of experience as a solo pilot to back her up. She’d spent several of her own years co-piloting alongside him, and the last eight months training specifically to be a full-fledged pilot, in her own right. She still had a few months of training left, and even more years of experience to gain, but she was enjoying the process. She enjoyed working alongside Clint, both on the ground and in the air.

She ran her hands over the controls, eyes searching around the dashboard. They lingered on the center joystick, and stopped. A tiny square of folded paper sat tapped to the shaft, hidden around the back side. She reached over and tore the tape with her nails, unfolding the scrap of paper. Her eyes darted over the hastily scrawled writing:

_I’m sorry, Natasha. I’m sorry it came to this. I don’t expect you to understand my actions. I know that telling you not to come after me is pointless. To S.H.I.E.L.D., I’m a traitor. Maybe to you, I’m a traitor. I am prepared to disappear forever, but there’s something I have to do, first. Even if it kills me._ _Поверь_ _._  

_-Clint_

_PS. I’m entrusting the Xbox to you, and only you. Take care of her._

Natasha let out her breath, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She folded the scrap of paper back up, sticking it into a tiny, hidden compartment in her belt.

Clint was asking her to trust him. And without literally asking her to stop looking for him, he was asking her to stop looking for him. Something she would normally respect…but not if got him killed or, even worse, hunted by S.H.I.E.L.D. for the rest of his life. However short that might be, now.

She leaned forward in the co-pilot seat, refocusing her attention on the dashboard. Specifically, on the small monitor used primarily for navigation. She keyed a short string of commands into the console, keying into her comm as the waited for the results to pop up.

“Agent Romanov to Director Fury. There’s no sign of Barton, here.”

“I assume you checked the in-flight data?”

“Naturally. Barton must have erased it.” Her eyes wandered over the string of text, indicating the approximate location of the Quinjet when the escape hatch had last been opened.

40° 3' 29.9664'' N 74° 24' 20.3796'' W

“…there’s no sign of him here, Sir.”

 

 

* * *

 

Поверь– trust me


End file.
